Richard L. Merila Poems

My Mother's hands, oh, the memories of them bring a sadness to my soul!
Aged, wrinkled and worn, My Mother's hands; oh, the memories, how I love them so
The coolness of my Mother's hands upon my fevered brow...
My Mother's hands, where are they now?
...

I prayed in the garden
For one lovely flower
That would brighten my way.
As He said, He gave me my desire.
...

Scanning the cemetery, my eyes did focus upon
our Stone of Roses; so fair and so fair. Running my hands upon the Rose reliefs, tears of
forgotten years, came remorsefully down my
sorrowful cheeks. A Stone of Roses, given to Our Father and Mother,
...